


An Awful, Terrible Tale as Old as Time

by NobleinPettiness (APeculiarPersuasion)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Also Pierre's a hick, F/M, Falling In Love, Minor theft leads to awkward dates, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Waterloo, Say it with me now : It's an old fic I found on my computer, except I might actually do something with this one idek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:54:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24208534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APeculiarPersuasion/pseuds/NobleinPettiness
Summary: All stories have an end, but even the worst have a begining. Pierre Thénardier, flush with the thrill of a successful campaign and recent promotion in the Grande Armée, becomes lost in Paris when a young pickpocket, Beatrice Roberts, makes her mark. Unfortunately, country boy he may be, he knows when he's being scoped out. Instead of turning her in, he offers her an offer: a date for a watch. What happens when two equally awful forces oppose one another? They go out for ale.
Relationships: M. Thénardier/Mme. Thénardier (Les Misérables)
Kudos: 1





	An Awful, Terrible Tale as Old as Time

A swarm of blue came over Paris as though the city had been flooded. Instead of water, which would have been welcomed in the particularly hot French June, the dark blue tint to the city was provided by a bataillment of soldiers, parading through the city after a particularly fortuitous war with one of the Italian states. Soldiers who hadn't been in a French city for years were finally on leave for the rest of that year, as new troops were positioned by the glorious Emperor Bonaparte. For those children of the revolution, 1811 seemed to be encouraging. Food was relatively available in most provinces, there hadn't been a revolution since Napoleon grasped the reigns, and France won every fight she picked with surrounding countries.

Not all are fortunate, though, even when one's country is soaring. The Robert family, which consisted of the patriarch, Marc, his wife Claudette, their daughters Beatrice and Amelie, and Amelie's husband Broujon Poulin, were watching the commotion from a one room apartment high above the streets. Amelie was laid up on one of the two mattresses in the room, since she was very, very pregnant and very, very hot.

"Think about alllllll the gold they must be carryin'." Muttered Broujon to his father-in-law, "We oughta be down there. B'tween the four'a us, we'd be takin' tea with jam by the time the sun sets."

"Not yet! Once they're dismissed, but not when they're goin' in a march! I don't much fancy bein' shot today." Replied Marc, the leader of the small gang.

Broujon, who wasn't the most patient man at the best of times, scowled and clenched his fists, but conceded the point.

In the window sat the youngest daughter, Beatrice, twirling her hair around her fingers absent-mindedly. She watched the soldiers come back from their adventures, fresh from the battlefield, from the country! The young woman had spent all her life in Paris and yearned to see what the country was like. The papers made it seem idyllic, rather like a park: beautiful, blossoming trees, a garden tended to by domestics, a lovely front porch in the new empire style...

"Beatrice!"

Her father's yell snapped her back to reality, forcing her to turn around. "Are you up for work today?" Inquired Marc.

"Yes Papa!" She said eagerly, anxious to mix with the soldiers. If the papers were to be believed, some of them were quite handsome.

That could not be said of the lean, lanky officer who marched at the front corner of his bataillment. Towering above the rest of the soldats at six foot three was Pierre Thénardier - born Thénard. He had rechristened himself when he was promoted to the rank of Courier Fourrier, which translated to being a glorified supply-man. Still, it kept him off the battlefield and with an in-tact neck. That was more than enough for him.

They marched in time, earning smiles and cheers from several passersby. He did appreciate the attention: Pierre had always had a way with people, earning their trust in earnest. This was what had brought him into the soldiering business. Until several years before, he'd fully intended on making his trade as a thief, like his brother Henri. The money was good, and it beat farming like his father. But there was something in the call of being a soldier: the respect, the command, the profit.... Not to mention that he idolized his emperor, the man who had saved France from the brink of utter collapse.

The afternoon dragged on, the soldiers splitting into their divisions, and finally their individual units for temporary charge of leave. Pierre's group, headed by General Camus, finally came to a hault as the terms of leave were barked at them: so long as one didn't get arrested and returned to one's station by the next spring, there was little to be concerned about.

While the leader ordered his troops, so too did Monsieur Robert. He, Claudette, Broujon, and Beatrice had taken to the streets how that the soldiers were beginning to disperse. The many whores of the great city had noticed as well, and provided quite a nice distraction for those who had money on the mind.

Marc and Claudette took the North side of the city, while Broujon and Beatrice walked the south. The brother and sister-in-law got along quite well, which was advantageous because Amelie couldn't work in her current, tender state. The two pickpockets began their trade, taking advantage of the officer's compromised positions, making off with their wallets, medals, and anything else that would catch a magpie's eye.

General Camus finally yelled the last condition of their leave before returning to whatever cave he would call home for the next few months. Pierre, along with the rest of the company, dispersed into the crowd, dots of blue and silver woven into the streets like metallic stars on dark cloth. He was a bit overwhelmed, truth be told; he was a country boy, having grown up on the family farm with his siblings. The close-knit, gardenless apartment buildings and houses disoriented him, so once he broke from the rest of the soldiers he meandered in a southern direction, his mouth screwed up in an expression of mild confusion.

Such an expression was joy for the pair of pickpockets, circling in on the street. Beatrice knocked her elbow against Broujon’s leg to get his attention as they leaned against the brick wall of a boucharie.

“You up for takin’ the tall one?” she inquired, nodding the blue-coated officer.

“The ginger? Nah, you’d best go afta ‘im. ‘E won’t notice a little flea on ‘is tail.”

Rolling her eyes, she flicked her brother-in-law’s arm and retied her apron around her waist so it lifted off the ground, in the event of a hasty escape. She eased in between the gaps in the crowd, several inches below the general populace, and therefor going unseen. She snuck up behind the tall man as he shielded his eyes in an attempt to read a faded street sign.

Just then, the officer felt the smallest twinge on his coat pocket; it wasn’t much, but it was more than enough to alert him to what was happening. Henri's first lesson had been pick-pocketing, which both boys seemed to have a knack for. Knowing the faint touch of a thief, he swung around to catch the wrist of whatever urchin was fishing for his pocket-watch, and he heard a soft gasp. Turning around fully to face the would-be criminal, he glanced around at his eye’s level before looking sharply downward. He had caught the wrist of a now-struggling young woman, though all he saw was a mess of blonde curls peeking out from beneath a mob cap which may once have been white.

“Lemme go, lemme go! I didn’t get nothin’, no ‘arm done!” She muttered frantically, trying to escape from his clutches.

Pierre's thin lips turned upwards into a smirk; the tiny thing had very nearly gotten the better of him.

"This wot’cha wonted?” He asked, only slightly mocking her as he withdrew his captain’s watch from his tail-pocket and dangled it in front of her rather teasingly. Her eyes darted around as she stubbornly refused to answer his question.

“Tell ya wot. You show me where ta get a drink ‘round ‘ere, and I’ll give it to you.” He was always willing to aid those aspiring to thievery.

Beatrice’s chin tilted up slowly as she tried to discern whether or not he was mocking her still. Though he was still smirking, that seemed to be his natural resting visage. Nodding slowly, she wiped her hands on her cornflower-blue apron.

“Alrigh’ monsieur… Come this way.” She instructed after several moments of staring at the pocket-watch; she’d heard that officers of a certain rank had gold-plated watches. She couldn’t wait to see if that was true.

Noting that Broujon seemed to have abandoned her the second she got caught, she rolled her eyes and began leading the tall man through the crowds to the nearest tavern; she knew the city like the back of her hand and had a sense of direction that rivaled a compass.

Keeping up easily with her tiny tripling across the cobblestones, Pierre looked over the dainty thing once more; she wore her mobcap and a tight work dress which may have been fashionable five years ago or so. Though the waistline was drawn beneath the bust in the now-popular empire style, her apron was tied about her natural waist which drew a rather pleasing picture.

“Now ‘ow’s a pretty little thin’ like you end up on the streets, mm?” He asked slyly, glancing around as they neared a corner.

Smirking lightly at the compliment, Beatrice kept her gaze forward, though found herself answering regardless, “Gotta work for the family, monsieur… Not to mention, ‘s really a spectacle, ain’t it? Wotchin’ all you men, all you ‘eroes…” She found the young officer rather dashing, for all his awkward height and copper curls.

“If you ‘eard the stories, mam’selle, you’d know ‘ow true wot you’re sayin’ is.” He replied frankly, appreciating the ego-stroking she gave him. That was half the reason he’d enlisted, truth be told.

“I’d love to ‘ear some.” The pickpocket replied coyly as they stepped into the tavern, one after another; the room was rowdy, to say the least; occupied by soldiers and the women they had managed to pick up in the brief minutes or hours since they had begun their leave of service. It appeared that Beatrice was the only lady not being paid by the hour.

“Wot d’you take, then?” He looked at her briefly as he saddled to the bar, leaning against the cheap wood which splintered a bit against his woolen dress jacket.

“I’ll drink anythin’, sir. ‘Cept water,” she said coquettishly, twirling a strand of hair that had escaped her cap around her finger. She treasured her hair, which she insisted on dying. She was blonde when she was born, but it turned dark in her early teen years. She much preferred the blonde, though it did put her family out monthly.

Taking this at face value, he pulled a roll of his monthly stipend from his pocket, licking his fingers as he casually pulled a few franc marks, obviously trying to impress his young companion. He succeeded, as her eyes twinkled as she watched; the young Robert loved three things in life; money, men, and her family. He was hitting two of those three marks; perhaps the last one as well, if she had her way. She’d always dreamed of marrying rich.

The bartender brought them a bottle of red wine and a pair of glasses, though the soldier and street rat eschewed them in favor of walking back outside to watch the chaos of the mid-afternoon crowd, fleeing to home and hearth. Pierre uncorked the bottle with his teeth and took a swig, wiping his lips afterward. If Beatrice was disturbed by the practice, she was practiced at appearing placid. In fact, when the bottle was handed to her out of courtesy, she took a longer drink than he.

"Ain't it a sight?" Asked the elder.

"Wot, the people?"

"Everythin'. Only been to Paris once, an' that wos to enlist." He said, taking the wine back from her, "Wot's your name, lovely?"

"Beatrice Robert, sir. An' yours?" She asked, looking up at him, hanging on to his every word.

"Pierre. Pierre Thenardier." He stumbled just a tad at the new surname he had fashioned for himself, but that only added to his allure: the -ier suffix was very popular at the time with officers who had risen through the ranks, denoting that they had a title.

Giving an ever beguiling smile, Beatrice traced her low neckline, "Well, Monsieur Thenardier, Paris innit all it's cracked up ta be, 'm afraid... I'd love ta see the country."

He looked down to meet her eye contact, smirking at the teasing little vixen. "Oh really now?"

Beatrice nodded in the affirmative, tracing her fingernails up his sleeve for just a moment, "But more than tha', I'd love to 'ear one'a your stories."

Smirking at the tease, he crossed one leg across the other as he leaned on the wall, "Let me think for a mo'..."

After a few moments of wracking his brain for his most heroic moment - the fact that he was a bloody coward seemed to have slipped his mind entirely - until he came upon the recent Spanish initiative.

"Well, pretty mam'selle, wot can ya tell me 'bout Gebora?"

The Battle of Gebora had been a huge victory for France, though the Spaniards had outmanned and outgun them significantly. Eyes wide, Beatrice breathlessly recounted the reports of the papers. Smirking, Pierre nodded and began regaling her with the tale of how he had not only single-handedly saved his bataillment, but also kept the Spaniards at bay until reinforcements came at the ready. Enthralled with the thrilling adventure, the street rat kept her wide, hazel eyes on her companion, reacting in all the right ways. She gasped when one of the Spanish dogs nearly slit his throat, but grinned when he fought him off with the butt of his gun.

The sun was beginning to set on the horizon, which meant it was very late indeed. The sun set late, even though it was only June. "That was a fantastic story, Monsieur Thenardier. Per'aps I migh' 'ear another some other time?"

Grinning at the coquette, he nodded, "I'm in the city for a year, mam'selle. I'd love ta become... better acquainted." He bowed slightly, pressing a gentlemanly kiss to the back of her hand, sending her into a bout of girlish giggles.

Perfect. I've gotta be off though... Maman and Papa will be worried sick." She said, turning to leave.

"One mo, mam’selle." Said the soldier, still grinning, "You forgot somefin'."

Beatrice turned in surprise, her face lighting up when she saw him dangling his pocket-watch in front of her once more. He tossed it to her, and she caught it deftly in her tiny hand, dropping it down the front of her dress.

"When may i see ya again, Mam'selle Robert?"

"Any day is fine... Per'aps Sunday?" She replied, twirling her hair once more, "meet me in the Market."

Nodding solemnly, Pierre grinned and watched the young lady tripple home to her anxious parents, who would scold her for being so late. She didn't care though. She didn't even show them the watch: she handed over the rest of her spoils willingly, but later that night, when the rest of them were asleep, she hid the golden trinket beneath the creaky floorboard beneath the furnace.

The Thenardier meandered down the avenue, finally stopping for the night at a chop-house. He was disgusted with how much the dirty innkeep was charging, but he was too tired from the day's march to argue. He forked over the cash, grumbling about what a racket he would make if he were in such a position, and passed out on an insect-ridden mattress, his pay cheque stuffed firmly in his breast pocket.


End file.
